


read me like a poem

by defcontwo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:46:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2457038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha infiltrates the CIA just to see the look on Sharon's face when she does it. Everything that follows after that? Yeah, that's about business as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	read me like a poem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchingatthecircuitboard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchingatthecircuitboard/gifts).



> Fic title and inspiration for this whole thing comes from the line from Archer, "Oh, Pamela, you read me like a poem," which I then could not resist working into this fic. I do not own Archer but man, wouldn't it be rad if I did.

It's been six months since her entire world came crumbling down around her in so much glass and ash and fire. Six months since SHIELD became a thing of the past, a closed chapter in a book that was meant to go on forever. 

Six months since she was fast-tracked through the CIA system on account of a near perfect service record and as close as it gets to a glowing recommendation from former SHIELD Assistant Director Maria Hill. 

Six months to the day, actually, and it makes Sharon start to realize that it's been so long. 

Since joining the CIA, Sharon's learned three crucial, life-saving lessons: 

1) If she wants something done, do it herself. 

2) The self-important asshole-ry that was rampant within SHIELD was not, in fact, just a by-product of HYDRA and Neo-Nazism but a common personality trait amongst most government intelligence agents. 

and 3) There's no such thing as too early when it comes to getting in line at the Starbucks. 

Sharon taps a manila folder against her palm idly, face glued to the back of the thinning hair of the man in front of her. He's trying to order a complicated, sugar-filled secret menu item which is a couple different layers of irony that she's not awake enough for yet. She's pretty sure that later, after her triple shot latte and lemon poundcake, it'll be more annoying than it is frustrating but right now, she's kind of thinking this guy could use a good kick to the shins, at least. 

Finally, he moves aside, revealing that the usual familiar face of the morning shift barista has been replaced by another, equally familiar face, wearing a short black-haired bob of a wig and cat-eye glasses and facial prosthetics to make her look about ten years older than she actually is. 

"Welcome to Starbucks, may I take your order?" Natasha Romanoff says, a cat-like smugness tugging at the edges of her lips. 

"Triple shot latte," Sharon says, mouth on autopilot. 

"No lemon poundcake?" Natasha asks. 

Asking how is futile. It's Natasha. 

The how is irrelevant; the only question that ever really matters with Natasha is this: why? 

"Let's go for the coffee cake today," Sharon says, and meets Natasha's gaze dead on. Natasha likes to think that she has people's number; she's always searching, always pressing to see where they will bend, where they will sway, where they will be predictable in their unpredictability. It's why she's good at what she does. 

It's why she can apparently infiltrate the CIA and take coffee orders from hundreds of people who should recognize her on sight but don't. 

Sharon pays and Natasha smiles that pasted on, customer service smile. There's a script, here, and they're both following it to the letter like it's opening night and they've done this a thousand times before. 

In a lot of ways, they have. 

Sharon nods, holding Natasha to a brief, solid moment of eye contact, a private reassurance that this is real, that it is not a hallucination of her tired mind, and then she walks away. 

. 

Sharon walks by the Starbucks in the afternoon and this time, Natasha is nowhere in sight. 

. 

It's another six months before she sees Natasha again and this time, it's out of the corner of her eye walking down a narrow, cobble-stoned street in Palermo. 

Sharon tails her; they fall about even two streets over from the Teatro Massimo and then Sharon's pulling them both into an alcove, Natasha grinning up at her like no time has passed between them at all, like they were put on pause six months ago and Natasha has just pressed play again. 

"Lemon poundcake?" Natasha says. Out of habit, maybe, or probably just to fuck with her. 

It surprises Sharon, always, how much taller than Natasha she is. How well Natasha makes herself into something greater and more terrible than her small frame should feasibly allow for. 

"Are you here trailing Sin?" 

"Of course. You've been given bad intel." 

"I know; what else is new?" 

"Sin's got a new boyfriend." 

"It's true what they say, I guess. There really is somewhere out there for everyone." 

"It's Rumlow." 

Sharon grimaces. It fucking figures. 

Well. She owes Rumlow a broken nose, at least, maybe a shot to the head if she's lucky. 

"Just you and me today?" 

"It's a covert op, Carter." 

Sharon cracks a grin. "What, no Rogers?" 

"The star-spangled man with a plan?" Natasha asks, as if either of them could mean anyone else. "No, he's in Prague." 

"Barnes?" 

Natasha inclines her head. "Obviously." 

"What about Barton?" 

"Is there really anything covert about a bow and arrow?" 

"Just you and me, then."

"You know what they say about old times, Sharon." 

Sharon rolls backwards and forwards on the balls of her feet, a thrum of excitement running up and down her spine. The heavy, beat-up brown leather jacket that she's got slung over a worn, dirty white t-shirt creaks with the movement and Sharon gets thrown back, suddenly, to a different time and a different place. 

A hotel room in Dubai and bedsheets covered in room-service crumbs and Natasha Romanoff, tired and sated and naked except for this jacket, blood-stained and heavy, settled across her pale shoulders. 

Natasha blinks up at Sharon, slowly, with purpose, like she knows exactly what Sharon is thinking. "Later, Carter. After you gift Rumlow with a bullet to the head."

"Oh, Romanoff, you read me like a poem." 

. 

Sin is maybe exactly what you'd expect, all things considered, and has no problem with cutting her losses and taking off running, leaving Rumlow to take the fall for her, which Sharon guesses makes Sin a little bit smarter than they bargained for. 

She gets away but not before Natasha plants a tracker on her. A problem for another day. 

Rumlow, though -- Rumlow goes down hard, screaming and fighting and spitting obscenities every step of the way, taking a bullet to each shoulder and collapsing back onto the steps of the Teatro. Sharon shouldn't enjoy it as much as she does but when she thinks of the Triskelion in ruins -- when she thinks of Aunt Peggy, tired and worn and heavy with the weight of what became of her life's work, well, maybe Sharon enjoys it just a little. 

"Cut off one head -- " 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sharon says, grinding the heel of her boot into his left shoulder. 

Natasha glances sideways at Sharon, raising a carefully crafted eyebrow. "Don't you think this shoot-out was a little too on the nose for this locale?" 

"How long have you been holding that Godfather reference in, Nat?" 

"All day." 

"You ever poison someone with a pastry?" 

"Not yet. It's on my list." 

"Maybe next time, then." 

. 

The hotel room is different, this time; the bedsheets are clean and the leather jacket covered only in a fine city dust but Natasha looks just as beautiful in it nonetheless, the rough brown leather a stunning contrast against pale, scarred flesh. Natasha pins Sharon to the bed, swinging one leg over Sharon and straddling her, copper-red hair falling forward and tickling Sharon's chin. 

Something burns bright and triumphant in Natasha's gaze but it's not a game that's won at Sharon's expense. 

Sharon runs the tips of her fingertips along Natasha's ribs and it is her own private victory to see Natasha shiver with it, to see her careful facade slip into such clear, naked want. 

The thing about this game is, they both win in the end. 

"Lemon poundcake?" 

"Fuck off, Natasha," Sharon says, and kisses her anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> [Apparently, that Starbucks is a real thing](http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/at-cia-starbucks-even-the-baristas-are-covert/2014/09/27/5a04cd28-43f5-11e4-9a15-137aa0153527_story.html), so says the Washington Post.


End file.
